


I Could Not Be At Rest, I Could Not Be At Peace

by CosmicJourney



Series: I Want To Be Well [2]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ben Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Blood and Injury, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Good Brother Ben Hargreeves, Good Brother Klaus Hargreeves, Good Sister Allison Hargreeves, Good Sister Vanya Hargreeves, Heart-to-Heart, Hurt Klaus Hargreeves, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Klaus Hargreeves Needs Help, Klaus Hargreeves Whump, M/M, No Incest, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Ben Hargreeves, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Sober Klaus Hargreeves, Tags May Change, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-05-02 05:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19192360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicJourney/pseuds/CosmicJourney
Summary: With the apocalypse delayed, there's now ample opportunity for Klaus to open up to his siblings about his past.  There's also ample opportunity to try and conjure Dave.  Unfortunately, one of these has to take precedence over the other.(Sequel to "I'll Find Sleep, I'll Find Peace")





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> tags will probably change with each chapter because uh spoilers

* * *

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Illness likes to prey upon the lonely, prey upon the lonely  
Wave goodbye, oh, I would rather be dead  
I would rather be fine

I want to be well, I want to be well  
I want to be well, I want to be well

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“I Want to Be Well” by Sufjan Stevens  


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Early dawn light dapples the courtyard in cold, pale hues, gleaming through the thick fog that swirls in eddies across the stone. The trees, just beginning to bud with the year’s new leaves, are encased in ice—a freezing rain must have fallen at some point last night. The ground is saturated and slick.

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Klaus breathes in, feels the bitter cold scorch through his lungs, and releases it in a puff of vapor. He has a vague recollection of running through the courtyard on a day very much like today with a boy his age who had a hole in his chest and a skip in his step. He’d pretended to be a dragon, breathing fiery-cold fog that would threaten the village unless Klaus, the dragonslayer, could defeat him. They’d had a lot of fun together but Klaus can’t even remember his name now.

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That probably has something to do with the hard drugs he’s been doing for over a decade, but, well, the holes in his long term memory have mostly been a godsend.

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The unfriendly dead are mostly quiet at the moment, which is a rare luxury. They shamble about the courtyard and only occasionally scream or shout his name. For the most part, they seem content to wail to themselves about the unfairness of life and death and vow revenge on whoever wronged them. That’s all easy enough to ignore as long as he doesn’t make eye contact or focus on the grislier details.

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Klaus glances over at Ben. The two of them are sitting side-by-side on the little stone bench near the demolished remains of Ben’s memorial statue. Little beads of frozen moisture cling to the black marble and make it look like the broken pieces are sweating profusely. Klaus tells Ben this, because it’s funny.

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Ben looks at the statue, then at Klaus, his brows knitting together. _“Wait, why’s that funny?”_

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“Well, there’s that saying, right?” Klaus prompts. “You know, ‘sweat from a stone?’”

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Ben shakes his head, looking bewildered. _“That’s not—it’s_ blood _from a stone. Not sweat.”_

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Klaus narrows his eyes, disbelieving, but he hums and nods all the same after quite a long silence. “Huh. Learn something new everyday.”

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_“Oh my god,”_ Ben mutters, horrified but resigned, _“you don’t believe me.”_

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“ _No_ I don’t believe you, you literally just made that up!” Klaus can hardly get the sentence out before they’re both laughing, Klaus doubling over and Ben throwing his head back.

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_“Holy shit,”_ Ben breathes, dragging his hands down his face. _“_ Please _ask someone else when they wake up, I’m begging you.”_

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Klaus straightens up and scoffs. “What, you think any of the others are well-versed in metaphors? You think they can even read?” this gets another round of roaring laughter from Ben, but Klaus perseveres, “they’ll just think I made up some story about, like, juicing rocks or some shit.” Ben practically scream-laughs at that, which is always worth trying to induce because he sounds like a kid again and it’s almost like they never lost him in the first place.

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When finally they both calm down, Klaus feels warm despite the bitter chill in the air and his less-than weather-appropriate attire. He never bothered changing out of yesterday’s clothing—no one did, when all was said and done, and he has yet to work up the motivation to change out of his army vest.

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They prevented the apocalypse, or at least delayed it, by simply freeing Vanya from dear old Dad’s torture chamber and hearing her out. It couldn’t be that simple, though—and, as Five assured them, it wasn’t. Time _wants_ to happen, events will keep struggling through whatever obstacles are put in their way. Until they find a more permanent solution, Klaus figures everyone will be very on edge. Not just because of the looming threat, of course, but also because they’re all emotionally-stunted dumbasses living under the same roof again while they help their sister learn how to control her powers.

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As one of those emotionally-stunted dumbasses, Klaus doesn’t have too much faith in the plan. First of all, because Vanya’s powers are beyond anything anyone’s ever witnessed, and second of all, because they are just as likely to kill each other as help one another. It’s nice being off the streets, though, so Klaus isn’t in any hurry for the arrangement to dissolve. (He’s also missed his siblings terribly and wishes they all could have reconciled under better circumstances.)

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Ben must sense Klaus’s shift in mood because he’s watching him appraisingly. _“You’re doing great, you know that?”_ Ben says finally, with a soft and fond smile. He looks warm and cozy at least, with his hands tucked in his hoodie. _“I wasn’t lying when I said I like sober you. You’re a lot of fun.”_

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Klaus can’t help but smile back, even though his faith in himself is even shakier than his faith in their family. Three—or four?—days sober with no sign of Dave and the ghosts gnawing at his sanity has left him craving a release. He’s always been so quick to give up, though. He’d like to hold out this time for his sake and for Ben’s, and maybe for Vanya’s too, if there’s some chance he’ll be able to help her.

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There’s also the fact that the hope of reuniting with Dave is just about the only thing keeping him upright most days without the happy haze of drug-induced bliss to cushion all the darkness swirling around in his brain. He’s willing to do some very dangerous and reckless things for the chance to just _see_ Dave, and staying sober is just the beginning.

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A familiar swish of red and white draws Klaus’s gaze to where a pale little girl has appeared at the edge of the courtyard. She still looks lost and uncertain, and Klaus heaves a sigh. The child bride who appeared the night Klaus died (and then un-died) has been a steady fixture in his life for the past few days, though Klaus has come no closer to successfully speaking with her. He’s tried both German and French, but received no indication she understood, and there hasn’t exactly been time to sit down and try to guess her language. She also doesn’t speak, so that’s quite a hindrance on the communication front.

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“Can ghosts learn sign language?” Klaus asks Ben, whipping back around to look at him so fast that his neck hurts.

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Ben frowns, considers. He had been watching the girl, too. _“I mean, I don’t see why not. But wouldn’t you need to know what language she speaks in order to translate it into sign language?”_ Yeah, probably, not that he knows anything about sign language. 

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Klaus groans, vexed that the only friendly spirit he’s encountered in years is completely out of reach. Ben waits a moment before speaking again. _“Maybe you should talk to Pogo, see what he thinks?”_

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Klaus grimaces. He hasn’t spoken to Pogo at all since the night he died (and then un-died). “I would really rather not.”

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_“Oh.”_ A beat of tense silence and some quiet shuffling. _“Are you sure?”_

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Klaus rolls his eyes. “You’re not subtle, dude.”

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_“Wasn’t trying to be,”_ Ben retorts, not unkindly. 

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“I’m _fine_ , Ben,” Klaus says and hopes Ben will drop it. He’s left it alone every time Klaus has asked him to so far, but this is the first real downtime they’ve had since that night. He knows that Ben is going to press and he really wishes he’d had the foresight to steel himself for this conversation earlier.

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_“Okay, but see, I don’t think that’s true,”_ Ben begins, _“because you woke up at four a.m. screaming, which isn’t unusual, and then you immediately covered yourself in blankets, which also isn’t unusual, except I just recently learned about something that happened to you which makes that particular habit very disturbing.”_ Klaus winces. Ben isn’t holding back, apparently. _“Also, I can’t help but feel like I’ve made everything much worse, even though you haven’t said as much.”_

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Klaus starts and looks at Ben, his eyes wide with concern. “What? Ben, no, you haven’t done anything wrong, why would you think that?”

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_“I touched you,”_ Ben reminds him without meeting his gaze. His voice is hushed and uncertain and he sounds like a child again. _“Or—punched you, whatever, you deserved it. But I can’t stop thinking that that must have been the first time a ghost has touched you since—then. And I don’t know_ why _you’re not freaking out.”_

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Klaus swallows back the bile that tries to rise in his throat and quells the trembling he can feel in his hands. When he talked to Pogo he had been in the midst of withdrawal and had felt more than a little unstable, which he’s been telling himself explains away the breakdown and the waterworks. The explanation does little to ease his embarrassment, especially when he’s stone-cold sober now and the mention of _that_ is enough to start him panicking. “Give me a minute,” he requests, because he needs to get a grip before they continue this conversation.

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_“If you can’t talk to me, that’s okay,”_ Ben says, even though it’s really not okay. If Klaus can’t talk to Ben he can’t talk to anyone, and they’ve both had enough of Klaus not talking to anyone.

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Klaus takes a deep, shuddering breath, and he starts talking. “Okay, first of all, never compare yourself to _them_ , ever. I’m going to hug you so hard once I can conjure you for realsies and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Ben quirks a smile at that. “Second of all, and this is really just an addendum to the first of all, you touching me is never going to make me freak out. It really bothers me that you think it would. So I need you to, like, vocalize that you understand me.”

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Ben blinks and looks somewhere between fond, amused, and concerned. _“That’s—that’s really sweet Klaus, but it’s not exactly what I meant.”_

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“Okay, well, before we get to what you meant, I still need you to tell me you understand.” Klaus insists.

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Ben throws his hands up in defeat but the smile doesn’t leave his face. _“Alright, I understand that I’m not one of the bad ghosts and that you’re not scared of me.”_

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Klaus nods vigorously. “Yes, okay, thank you, carry on.”

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Ben rolls his eyes but does carry on. _“Okay, what I_ meant _was that_ me _being able to touch you might mean that—you know, some of the more unsavory types might be able to as well.”_ The amusement is gone from his face and voice now. _“If you were to—I don’t know, lose control of the power somehow, or push yourself too hard while trying to conjure me.”_

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“That’s what happened the first time, actually,” Klaus says. “Not the trying to conjure you part, you were very much alive at this point. But it’s like what Pogo said. I was pushing myself, trying to like, level up my power or something so Dad would let me go early, but I lost control and he wasn’t back to check on me for a few hours more anyway.”

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He says it flippantly, because he doesn’t know how else to deal with his issues, but it’s not enough to keep a deep pain from etching itself into Ben’s face. He looks like he wants to ask something, and then another thing, but he doesn’t. Klaus is grateful for that. He knows that what he just said probably raised more questions than it answered. He clears his throat and continues. “So, uh, yeah, I mean, I remember how it felt to lose control of the conjuring and not being able to rein it back in. I was thinking, if we keep practicing, I can learn how to control it completely.”

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Ben swallows and thinks for a long moment. _“That sounds really dangerous,”_ he finally says. He eases into his next question tentatively. _“I know you really don’t want to, but is there anyway you could ask one of the others to like, spot you?”_

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Klaus is shaking his head before Ben is done talking and he laughs a harsh, unkind laugh. “Yeah, if this were to go south, the last thing I’d want is one of our siblings around.”

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Ben looks horrified, which is probably fair, because this is sort of the culmination of all of Klaus’s self-imposed isolation and recklessness. _“Yeah, no,”_ he snaps, _“if you want me to help you, you’re doing it with one of the others around. I’m not going to sit back and watch you get hurt—and even if I’m able to intervene, you_ have _to understand how much safer it would be with another person, too.”_

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“How do you suggest I broach this topic, Ben?” Klaus’s voice is frigid cold, even with a sardonic smile aimed up at the sky. “‘Hey guys, what’s up, anyone want to watch me try to conjure the dead and make sure I don’t get sexually assaulted?’ I get the feeling that wouldn’t go over well.” Is it even sexual assault if that’s _probably_ not what the ancient horde of broken and desperate ghosts meant it to be?

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Ben must know that Klaus is just trying to shock him with his bluntness and get him to leave the subject alone, because he doesn’t so much as flinch. _“The only reason that wouldn’t go over well is because you’ve never asked for their help before.”_

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Klaus doesn’t look at him. He’s starting to get really cold, so he hunches in on himself and folds his arms tightly. His knee has been bouncing restlessly this whole time. The little girl is drifting across the ground with preternatural grace, observing the beauty of the frozen world. The whole family should learn sign language, actually, so they can communicate with Allison easier. He’ll get started on that today after he gets cleaned up and dressed and eats something and sits through a lecture from Five or Luther. He’s thrilled for just a second that he has plans for the day and that they involve spending time with his family.

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_“I wish I understood you,”_ Ben laments. Klaus is more than a little hurt by that, but he tries really hard not to show it. _“One second you’re making a goal to stop hurting yourself so you can talk to the person you love, and then the next you’re trying to get yourself killed before you get the chance.”_

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Klaus can’t blame him for not understanding that, actually. Ben didn’t go with him to Vietnam. Klaus had told him a bit about it, and all about Dave, a man so brave and strong and beautiful and kind that he was worth giving up the only thing that kept Klaus relatively sane. This is just the logical next step. He’s more than willing to give up his mind and body to hold him one more time. How could Ben possibly understand that? “This is the only way to bring Dave back,” he tries to explain anyway, “yeah, of course there's a risk involved, but we just stopped the apocalypse. Luck is on our side and—this is _worth it_ , Ben.”

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Ben, if anything, looks even sadder and more frightened. _“God, Klaus, no. Come on, you can’t be serious.”_

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He’s also willing to do some very dangerous and reckless things in order to be taken seriously, he’s starting to think.

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_“Klaus, look at me,”_ Ben snaps, and Klaus does, because an abusive childhood and military experience kind of condition a person to take orders, _“this is_ not _what Dave would want. He would be fucking terrified that you’re even considering this.”_ His voice breaks at the end. _“God, man, you can’t—you’re scaring me.”_

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Klaus’s breath catches, and he doesn’t say anything.

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Ben, of course, latches onto that hole in his armor. _“I just got you back. You’re finally yourself again, after all these years. And I—I can’t lose you again.”_

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Klaus shuts his eyes tightly. His face feels numb with the biting cold and a deep shudder runs up the length of his spine. All these years he’s been hurting Ben, pushing him away, and now that he’s clean he still can’t shake the habit. “Okay,” he whispers finally. “I won’t do this without help.”

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Ben slouches with relief. _“You’ll have to actually talk with someone, then.”_

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Klaus grimaces. The cold makes his teeth ache. “Yeah, I know. I guess I’ll just—test the waters with everyone first, see who’s most receptive, or whatever.” 

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_“Or,”_ Ben says with the tentative tone in his voice again, _“you could talk to everyone because they’re your family and they love you and you need help, and make your decision based on who you feel most comfortable with.”_

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Klaus can almost imagine this going well. He can imagine training with Vanya, mentioning offhandedly that the two of them have very similar stories, and going from there. He can imagine sneaking out with Allison like when they were kids, maybe finding someplace quiet and far away to talk. He can imagine hugging Diego who would hug him back because he’s Diego and he’s not changed much from the grumpy teddy bear of their youth. The problem is, he’s not sure how much of these fantasies would actually be conducive towards progress in controlling his powers and how much is a desire to reconnect with his siblings.

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He can’t imagine willingly confiding in either Luther or Five. Maybe it’s uncharitable, but Klaus thinks he might just skip them if possible.

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There’s also the fact that he would rather not talk, ever, but Ben is right. When he brings Dave back he has to do it the right way. He has to be safe, and comfortable, and doing it out of love, not desperation—anything else would be a disservice to his memory, and to what Dave had always wanted for him, for both of them. Dave had believed in him so fiercely.

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_“We should go inside,”_ Ben says into the stillness. The sun has crested the staccato lines of the city and is rising in front of them. Its warmth is minimal on Klaus’s skin, but he can hear the faint _drip drip drip_ of water weeping from the ice surrounding them, and he can see the fog curling up and dissipating into the air. The sweat on Ben’s statue is flowing now and pooling beneath the broken pieces. _“Klaus. Aren’t you cold?”_

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“I’m fuckin’ freezing,” Klaus mutters with a full-bodied shiver. He stands abruptly and tries not to wince when some of the wandering spirits are alerted by the movement and start to drift toward him. He wonders sometimes if Ben thinks his reactions to the ghosts are irrational, or if he _did_ think that before the talk with Pogo. “Let’s try to go to the library later, hm? We should get some like, European language guidebooks or whatever the fuck.”

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Ben follows him as he makes his way tentatively towards the door, miraculously not slipping and falling on his ass. Ben snorts at his eloquence. _“Maybe you should try going back to bed?”_ he teases, _“tired Klaus makes less sense than high Klaus.”_

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Klaus waves his hand dismissively. “Perfect, no one will ever know the difference!” He opens the heavy doors and steps inside, giving a huge sigh of relief as the relative warmth of the house washes over him. He holds the door open for Ben behind him even though he’s perfectly capable of phasing through walls, because he thinks it might help Ben feel a bit more alive.

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“Master Klaus?” Klaus nearly jumps out of his skin as Pogo’s voice sounds behind him. He turns around to face his old teacher, who is making his way down the dimly lit corridor at his usual stilted pace. “Who are you talking to? And why are you up at this hour? And, pray tell, _why_ were you outside without so much as a coat?”

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“Ben, I’m stupid, I’m _really_ stupid,” Klaus answers, and Ben laughs.

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Pogo’s eyes widen, and he straightens his stance a bit. “Ah—greetings, Master Ben,” he looks around, like he’s expecting to see him, “wherever you are.”

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Ben raises one hand to wave shyly. “Ben says hi,” Klaus helps.

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Pogo is quiet and looks even more thoughtful than usual, so Klaus knows he wants to talk about something serious and not-fun. “Was Master Ben here with us, the night we spoke?”

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Klaus scratches the back of his head and looks at Ben, who is trying his best to be polite and looking very interested in a dust mote suspended in the air. It’s hard not to eavesdrop when standing between two people speaking in the middle of a long featureless hallway. “Yep.”

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Pogo’s fingers drum on the head of his cane. The ghosts from the courtyard have begun phasing through the wall and crowding around them. Klaus does his best to keep his eyes straight ahead, not wanting to give Pogo anything else to latch onto and ask about. After a moment Pogo nods and, without a word, continues on his way down the corridor. He passes straight through Ben, and Klaus is tempted to act like he just committed some great crime against all ghost-kind. A glare from Ben says he knows what he’s thinking and is not on board.

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“I am very glad you can rely on Master Ben’s company,” Pogo says suddenly, stopping and angling himself back towards Klaus. “Consider that your other brothers and sisters may be happy to listen, as well.”

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The words are soft and hang comfortably in the air. Klaus smiles, because the idea isn’t nearly as scary in the dawn light, without the imminent apocalypse and with a plan already in place. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it,” he says, “and I think you’re right.” He’s almost convinced it will be worth it. 

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The smile Pogo gives him is surprised, but profoundly warm and proud, and he doesn’t say anything more as he continues on his way.

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	2. Vanya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting this on mobile, i really hope the formatting is okay jdjdhdhdjd 
> 
> thank you everyone for your kind words, i hope this story is helping you find some stillness or at least some catharsis

* * *

  
I could say it, but you won’t believe me  
You say you do, but you don't deceive me  
It's hard to know they're out there  
It's hard to know that you still care  
I could say it but you won’t believe me  
You say you do but you don't deceive me  
Dead hearts are everywhere  
Dead hearts are everywhere

 

“Dead Hearts” by Stars  


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“I spy with my little eye, something that starts with the letter ‘t’.”

Vanya looks at Klaus through the rearview mirror. He’s scrunched tightly in the backseat, his long legs tucked up underneath him. “Is—is it a tree?” she guesses, because there’s literally nothing else it could be.

“Fuck yeah, it’s a tree,” Klaus answers, sounding very excited about the whole thing. Allison doesn’t take her eyes off the road but snorts a soft little laugh.

Vanya allows a small smile. The forest rushes past them on both sides, a monotonous swirl of pale greens and browns. It’s around eight in the morning, cold and misty, and the new leaves budding on the trees are probably still encased in frost from the night before.

Klaus shifts noisily, and Vanya glances back at him again. He’s been antsy for the past fifteen minutes or so. He always was quick to get restless. “We’ll be there soon,” she assures him before he can start whining.

He sighs dramatically and throws himself back against the headrest. “ _Why_ do we have to be out in the middle of nowhere for this?”

Vanya briefly resents the absence of Allison’s voice, because she’s getting tired of speaking for two, but that sentiment is of course quickly swallowed up by guilt. How easy it is to detach herself from the narratives of her siblings’ lives. “It’s so I don’t accidentally kill anyone,” she says, a bit snappishly. “ _You_ volunteered for this, you know.”

Klaus smiles, small and sweet, like he’s trying to soothe the nerves he’s frayed. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way, sister dear.”

Despite the teasing lilt of his voice, Vanya does believe him. Over the past week he’s jumped at every call to help with her training and been denied every time. They were all so scared of her at first, and Klaus’s power would be entirely useless if he needed to protect himself from her—at least, that was Luther’s reasoning. After Klaus’s incessant needling and a week of no incidents, he finally gave in.

Vanya can’t help but feel suspicious of her wayward brother’s intentions. He’s been so quiet and reclusive recently, spending most of his time at the library or in his room—or, sometimes, working with Allison on learning sign language. He doesn’t seem unhappy, and Vanya is relatively certain he’s sober. Maybe he really does just have a vested interest in her progress.

Vanya wishes she could believe that. She wishes her immediate instinct wasn’t to distrust these people she’s known her entire life. But they don’t trust her, either, and though they’ve all been getting along (mostly) fine she doubts they’ll ever truly understand one another. Too much time apart, too different in their experiences and traumas, too much blame to go around.

She shakes herself from her spiralling thoughts when she sees the sign announcing their usual campground. “This is it,” she tells Klaus just as Allison starts slowing down so they don’t miss the overgrown entrance. Diego scouted this place out specifically for their purposes—it’s isolated, quiet, and completely devoid of people at this time of year. Perfect for training someone with apocalypse-causing capabilities.

They pull into the campground, which is really just a small dirt parking lot bordered by uniform campsites and several hiking trails which wind off into the woods. There’s a single log cabin situated at the entrance, which is presumably where the site manager stays during the busy season. Klaus practically bolts from his seat when Allison parks them at the far edge of the lot. Vanya shares an exasperated glance with Allison before they exit the car.

Klaus stretches his arms and legs in long, exaggerated movements, prompting Vanya to realize that the black leather boots he’s wearing have quite the heel on them. It’s endearing, strangely, to see where his mind goes when he’s told to wear something practical. At least he’s wearing a warm coat. “C’mon, we’re going this way,” Vanya says, motioning to the hiking trail that veers sharply to the left and then downhill.

The three of them begin their trek down the thin winding trail with Allison leading and Klaus taking up the rear. The frost has mostly burned off the plants by now, leaving the undergrowth springy and glimmering with water droplets. High above them the canopy is filled with the wheedling chatter of migrating songbirds, and the sunlight through the leaves throws dappled shadows all down the path. This is an old growth forest, with gigantic trees as wide around as four Luthers and only the scant plant life that can survive in dim light.

It’s beautiful, and peaceful, and is different enough from the places Leonard took her to not start the spark of panic burning in her gut. It helps to be here with Allison, who has become such a steady fixture of support and guidance that her very presence is enough to set Vanya’s mind at ease. Through all the tension and discomfort of the past week, and the horrible events leading up to it, at least she knows she has one ally—and a valuable one at that. Even without her voice, Allison is listened to. Vanya wonders what that’s like.

She grimaces a bit even as the thought enters her head. She feels everything so deeply these days, ever since she stopped taking her medication. While sometimes it’s nice to experience the world so vividly, mostly she gets caught up in her negative emotions, which have never felt quite so raw. Bitterness is always lurking just under the surface of her psyche.

The path begins to get rockier and steeper underfoot. Vanya hears Klaus’s boots scrabbling for purchase behind her, but somehow he manages to stay upright—or, if he does fall, he’s quiet about it, which seems extremely unlikely. Actually, now that she thinks about it, he’s been awfully quiet this whole time. She glances over her shoulder at him and very nearly rams straight into Allison, who has stopped walking completely to look at their brother. She looks concerned. She signs something, slow and deliberate but still incomprehensible to Vanya’s untrained eyes.

Klaus raises his eyebrows, looks at Vanya and then at Allison again. “Who, me? Yeah, I’m fine, why?”

“You haven’t said anything in a while,” Vanya chimes in. 

Klaus smiles, and it’s soft and delighted and kind of adorable. “It’s just so _quiet_ out here.”

Vanya frowns, confused, and looks to Allison, whose face has brightened with tentative understanding. She signs again, and Vanya can at least read the questioning slant of her body language.

“Yeah, almost no ghosts,” Klaus breathes, and Vanya isn’t any less confused. Perhaps her understanding of Klaus’s power is a bit lacking. It’s not like he talks about it, and if he did, he’d never dream of doing so with Number Seven. Klaus shakes himself a bit then, like he’s decided he’s been unobtrusive for too long. “Alright, let’s get going!” He sidesteps them and takes the lead down the path, leaving Vanya to stare at Allison. Allison bites her lip, considering, but eventually shrugs and motions for the two of them to follow Klaus.

Vanya can understand that, she supposes. It’s not Allison’s story to tell. Her curiosity will have to wait. While writing her book, she had been careful to not be too presumptuous in her understanding of her siblings’ abilities. She doesn’t know much about the finer details of most of their powers and she doesn’t purport to. Still, she’s starting to consider that she knows even less than she thought.

She falls back into step with her siblings and lets her thoughts wander for the last few minutes of the walk. Finally, she sees Klaus stop up ahead where the land suddenly drops out. He looks back at Allison and Vanya as they both come up behind him. “How come Vanya gets like, the coolest training spot imaginable? Completely unfair.”

Vanya snorts, but she has to agree that it’s pretty damn cool. They’re standing on the edge of a cliff that hangs out over a broad, languid river far below. Off to the side is a small rocky path that will take them down below the cliff. There are rocks around the edge of the cliff that seem very precariously perched, and Vanya sometimes feels the childish desire to push them down into the river. “You haven’t seen the coolest part yet,” she says, starting down the steep ledge with her siblings in tow.

The trail brings them to just underneath where they stood, where the river’s seasonal flooding has carved out an open hollow beneath the cliff’s overhang. It’s a broad, shallow, semi-circular cave that looks out on the water, walls worn smooth by decades of erosion. Multicolored striations of limestone give the arena-like space an ancient, untouched feel, like they’re looking upon a cross-section of Earth’s history. Klaus whistles appreciatively. “How did Diego find this place again?”

Vanya shrugs. “He said he used to come here with someone, and he had to scout it out again because he wasn’t sure it would work. But it’s perfect.” Besides its seclusion, the spot is ideal because the cave’s acoustics allow Vanya to quickly single in on a noise—like the river, or someone’s voice—and channel her power effectively. It’s like a tuning fork, or a lightning rod, or a metronome. It’s like the Earth itself wants to help her direct her abilities. She explains it the best she can to Klaus, who is tracing his hand over the smooth stone wall but obviously listening intently.

“Huh,” Klaus says, and he looks out across the water with something approaching wonder on his face. “How cool is that.” 

Klaus and Allison get settled sitting side-by-side on a low rock just outside the lip of the cave while Vanya begins her starting exercices. Though she can see her siblings out of the corner of her eye, she can’t really hear them—or hear Klaus, rather. The river is loud in her ears even though its path is calm, and the sounds of the forest on the other side are amplified. Anything not directly in front of her is quiet, muffled, and easy to block out. She begins with evening her breathing, letting the soothing noises of the river wash over her, so her power can rise up out of her from a place of contentment, not fear or rage.

This was the first thing she and Five had worked on, that first day of training—just breathing, letting herself forget her bitterness and misery for long enough to feel at peace. She thinks Five may have experience with these exercises himself. She tries not to think about him, alone in the apocalypse, struggling to talk himself down from a panic attack and breathe even though he was just choking on ashes. He’s never said anything like that happened, but she likes to think she still understands him after all these years.

Vanya works for a long time on the simplest of her abilities, making the leaves on the other side of the river rustle and splashing pebbles into the river. She watches her siblings out of the corner of her eye, too—they’re working on sign language, as they do so often, and both are smiling like whatever silent conversation they’re having is absolutely delightful. A wave of jealousy too sudden to be contained rattles the stone walls around her, and she’s thrown from her headspace of stillness.

She resents her siblings and their comparative closeness with one another, the easy camaraderie they’ve slipped back into when her only confidant was taken away from her and has returned old and broken. Part of her understands that none of them were _truly_ at fault for the way they treated her—their father encouraged her ostracisation. They all suffered under him. Still, she can’t silence the voice in her head that screams she had it the _worst_ , that they _let_ her be treated that way, that they were _complicit_. It’s all terrifying and not true but she doesn’t know how to convince herself of that.

When finally she manages to calm down, the rocks are still creaking around her but have mercifully stilled. An angry wind through the trees and a fitful ripple through the water are the only visible signs of Vanya’s near lapse in control. She looks over to see Klaus and Allison staring at her. Allison is grimacing, having seen Vanya nearly flip her lid a few times now, but Klaus looks somewhere between terrified and fascinated. “You good?” Klaus asks, his shoulders shaking with a nervous laugh.

“Fine,” she snaps. She doesn’t want to talk about it, so she tries to get back in her headspace and continue, but Klaus interrupts the process.

“Okay, so—correct me if I’m wrong, please—but isn’t it a _good_ thing for you to get angry while you do this?” Vanya glares at him and thinks about how easy it would be to shove him off his perch. “Wait, hear me out. You’re supposed to be learning how to control your powers, right, and just kind of feeling them out is a good start, but don’t you think that more like— _exposure therapy_ will help out in the long run?”

Vanya thinks about it for a moment, but anxiety makes her shake her head. “No, I don’t like that idea,” she answers. “I don’t want to be _forced_ into controlling them, I’ve had enough of that.”

Allison nods thoughtfully, and Klaus smiles. “Fair enough, carry on!”

Vanya isn’t sure she’ll ever quite get used to people listening to her or acquiescing to her wishes. She doesn’t spare it too much thought out of fear of breaking down and returns to her training with renewed vigor. She manages to block her siblings out again and this time keep them that way for what feels to be several hours but may be longer. She tries to not even look in their direction, not wanting to give in again to her negative emotions.

Eventually, she registers Klaus standing quite close beside her. He seems reluctant to interrupt but also unsure of what he would be interrupting. Vanya sighs and allows the rest of the world to come back to her slowly, filtering in through the dilated pinprick of her expanding consciousness. “What’s up?”

“Oh, good, you’re awake. Come sit with me?” he gestures to the rock, now enticingly lit by bright late morning sunlight. Allison isn’t sitting there anymore.

“Where did Allison go?” Vanya asks, panic beginning to set it. Allison hasn’t been out of her sight much at all this past week.

“She—whoa, hey, Vanya, it’s okay,” Klaus lays a firm hand on her shoulder, steadying her where she has begun to sway. Even doing lower-effort exercises with her powers tends to leave her exhausted if she does them for long enough. “Come on, you need to sit down,” he guides her gently to the sun-warmed rock, where she plops down gratefully. “Allison is fine, she went back to the car to grab lunch. She said you should’ve taken a break ages ago but you seemed really into it today.”

Vanya shrugs, not sure what to say in response. “I was,” a pause, “really into it, I mean.”

Klaus hums and steps around to sit on the other side of her. He presses his arm against hers and she leans into the proffered pillar of support. As skinny as he is, he’s steady and the black fabric of his jacket is warm. “Is it fun? You _should_ be having fun, you deserve it.”

Vanya giggles and leans her head on his shoulder. He really can be sweet. That’s how he was when they were all very little, so nurturing and empathetic it was like having a second mother. “Yes, it’s fun, but only when I’m sure I’m in control.”

“Huh,” Klaus tenses the slightest bit, “can’t relate.”

Vanya lifts her head just enough to see the underside of his clenched jaw. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, why should he? “I wasn’t going to ask,” Vanya ventures, hoping she doesn’t sound too defensive. She’s curious, of course—is he really never in control of his power? Are the dead really always with him?

“I know you weren’t,” Klaus says. He sounds nervous. “But I’d like to talk to you about it, if that’s okay.”

She takes one of his hands and holds it in both of her own. She doesn’t know him well, didn’t even when they were kids. He wasn’t needlessly cruel to her, but he was indifferent, and after Ben’s death he was practically absent from her life. The distance between them aside, she loves him dearly, and she feels equal parts honored and shocked that he wants to confide in her. Another traitorous part of her is suspicious and angry and bitter as always, but it’s easy to ignore this time. “I’m listening.”

He sighs, and the hand in her grasp shakes. “It’s—I’m not sure you want to hear it, actually. It’ll put a pretty big plothole in your book.”

Vanya snorts. “If you want to talk, I want to listen.”

“Okay,” he breathes, no quip ready. “Okay, uh. So. I can see dead people.”

“This I know,” she teases, just to urge him along.

“This you know,” he agrees, “but the thing is, I see them all the time. They’re everywhere.” His hand is clammy in her own but she just squeezes it tighter. “And they’re—horrible. They’re angry and scared and they scream about it and scream _at me_ for not being able to help them, and they say some pretty awful things. And they look how they did when they died, which can be, you know, horrific.”

Vanya is at a loss, completely unsure of her footing. “And you’ve—always been able to see them?”

“Since I was around five, I think,” he answers. His voice is very unsteady now and she hears him swallow several times. She wishes she could see his face but thinks he probably prefers it this way.

“There’s nothing you can do to make them go away?” the horror in her voice seeps in of its own volition. She can barely imagine the things he’s describing. Her mind conjures images of gruesomely maimed corpses hounding her brother when he was little more than a baby, screaming in his ears and begging for help he couldn’t give. She feels sick.

Klaus takes a long time to answer. “The drugs were the only thing that helped,” he whispers eventually.

Vanya thinks about that and tears start pricking at the corners of her eyes before she’s fully processed what he’s said. “Oh,” she says. “Oh, Klaus.”

He’s right that this does put a pretty major plothole in her book, where she basically said he turned to drugs when he lost all the attention that childhood superstardom had lavished upon him. The knowledge that she had been so very wrong—and that he had never said otherwise—tugs violently at her heart. She doesn’t know what to do with this new knowledge, besides maybe find somewhere dark and quiet to cry.

He shifts uncomfortably, but she holds fast to their every point of contact. She can’t let him pull away from her again. He clears his throat and then is quiet. Somewhere out in the forest a pileated woodpecker drums its quick staccato beat on a tree. “What you said earlier—about not wanting to be forced into using your powers. I can relate to that. And some of the other stuff that happened to you.”

For a long time Vanya was under the impression that her siblings would never be able to understand what she went through, and the last vestiges of that conviction make themselves known now in a wave of anger. She can tamp it down easy enough, but it’s unsettling, and she can’t quite help her disbelieving inflection when she asks “what do you mean?”

“Well, I—Dad, uh,” Klaus grinds his teeth and shifts again. “Sorry. I haven’t ever really talked about this.”

That’s a startling revelation. Vanya stares straight ahead and tells herself she can think more about the implications of that when she’s alone.

Klaus takes a hissing breath through his clenched teeth. The woodpecker pauses in its search for food, like it’s giving Klaus the stage. “So, I saw the dead all the time, and I was terrified—which, I mean, is pretty understandable, I think. But Dad wanted to fix that, so I could actually try to communicate with them. And he thought the best way to fix me was to take me to the cemetery and throw me in a mausoleum.”

He’s breathing harshly, and Vanya presses her cheek harder against his shoulder. Their surroundings are quiet and peaceful and warm in juxtaposition with the cold pit forming in her stomach. The woodpecker is working at its tree again and its strikes are ringing in Vanya’s ears.

“It was dark, and cold, and he kept me in there for hours at a time. Days, sometimes, if I managed to really piss him off. The ghosts inside were ancient and, I don’t know, I think they just went insane because all they did was scream—”

Vanya doesn’t hear the rest, and in fact barely registers anything beyond that first sentence. Suddenly she’s back in the basement, phasing between her child and adult selves, so desperate to be free and feeling so alone and cold and so afraid of herself. The world is whipping around her and all she hears is the distant insistent tapping that echoes through the woods and swirls through her head. The body she is clinging to lurches, in fear or in pain, but she can’t bring herself to care.

She knows where she is, sort of, but at the same time she can see her reflection in the glass and watches her breath fog it over. She sees her siblings turn away from her one by one to leave her alone with the fear of her youth, the injustice she alone had to bear. The rage builds and builds and is stoked by residual terror and the world shakes beneath her in time with the drumming in the trees.

Whatever she is holding rips away from her, leaves her untethered, then shoves her away. She falls to the ground and the impact shakes something within her, brings her back a bit—and then the earth roils all over again. She can’t hear much beyond a distant ringing but she knows whatever just happened was loud and that there was a scream, too, that cut off and dissipated in the air.

Her vision swims as she sits up, achingly slow. The rock she sat at is gone. She blinks, shakes her head, and comes to understand that it is buried underneath a pile of loose rocks torn from the cliff. Her fingers clench in the rocky soil under her. She sits there, shocked and uncomprehending, until her eyes land on the half-buried, dust-covered body lying motionless beneath the rubble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you’re all hilariously indulgent. im like hey, comment or i will die, like some kind of wretched baby bird, and you all acquiesce like my equally wretched but infinitely handsomer parent birds


	3. Luther

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back to your regularly scheduled Suffering
> 
> i kind of hate tagging things as whump... it feels. trivializing.
> 
> reminder that this story is intended to be a sort of exercise in empathy. it's heavy and it hurts but i promise i'll make it better just trust me okay.

* * *

  
And you can tell  
From the full-body cast  
That you're sorry that you asked  
Though you did everything you could  
(Like any decent person would)  
But I might be catching so don't touch  
You'll start believing you're immune to gravity and stuff  
Don't get me wet  
Because the bandages will all come off

 

“Girl Anachronism” by The Dresden Dolls  


* * *

Luther is trying.

He really, _really_ is, and he’s starting to see the results. He’s starting to recognize all the little cracks in his own worldview and piece together the story from an objective standpoint. He’s beginning to understand one undeniable truth: he, and all the Hargreeves siblings, are well and truly fucked up.

The others are patient with him as he comes to this conclusion. They guide him, inasmuch as they can, to the things they understood long before he did. Just the other day, he was experimenting with these new concepts—“Dad’s training was too harsh. He should never have pushed us so hard.”—and Diego had looked at him without a trace of defiance or resentment. He had just gazed at him and nodded gently without a word. Then they went back to sparring like nothing happened.

It’s these little moments that are teaching him more than the mounds of books he’s gotten from the library. He went early last week with Klaus, and again this morning when he exhausted his reading material on scary subjects like _abuse_ and _emotional neglect_. All the accounts and stories don’t sound _exactly_ like what they went through, but he supposes that’s understandable, what with the unusual circumstances of their upbringing. The problem is the coldness of it all.

In all the books he’s read so far he’s seen little assurance that he’s allowed to love the man who raised him. Because he does, in spite of everything, still love his dad, and he doesn’t want to stop. He wants to get out from under his teachings, to _get better_ and to _truly love_ the people he’s always treated as his underlings, but he doesn’t want to completely abandon the only other love he’s known. It was fucked up, unreciprocated love, but love all the same.

Luther puts his book down beside him on his too-small bed and stares up at the ceiling and at the mocking sway of the model airplane. This could be worse than he thought. He drags his hands down his face, presses his fingertips to his eyelids until he sees stars. He misses them terribly sometimes. The silence of the moonscape, all peaceful and still, is something he got used to. _Abused children will oftentimes become accustomed to their circumstances and make no effort to speak out,_ one of his textbooks said.

He’s not a child, though. He’s not sure _what_ he is anymore.

An eruption of noise from downstairs startles him, and he sits bolt upright. The sound—recognizable now as frantically raised voices—sends alarm signals ringing through his head, every deep-rooted instinct kicked into overdrive. He vaults from his bed, which creaks in protest, and runs down the hallway. The noise gets louder until he stands at the top of the stairs, and then it abruptly stops as everyone below falls quiet.

Luther’s gaze falls first on Vanya. She is silent and staring and covered in dust but unhurt. To her left, Allison is standing tall and looking up at Luther. A dark shape is draped over her shoulders, and it takes Luther a moment to realize that it’s one of Klaus’s arms. The rest of his body is hanging limply against her, his head drooping low, but he’s supporting some of his own weight so he must be conscious. Diego must have been mid-freakout, since he’s poised with his hands reaching out to Klaus, but now he’s looking up at Luther with frantic eyes. Five stands off to the side. “What happened?” Luther asks.

Chaos erupts with raised voices and arms flailing like semaphores. Luther rushes down the stairs and practically shouts to be heard over the noise, “where’s Grace?”

“She went to get a stretcher,” Diego answers. In the following quiet Luther is hyper-aware of how labored Klaus’s breathing sounds. Klaus lifts his head the slightest bit as Luther approaches and gives a weak little wave with the hand slung over Allison’s shoulders. Luther isn’t sure why he doesn’t use the other arm until he looks down at it and has to fight the urge to vomit. It almost looks like Klaus has two elbows, one bending in each direction, and both awash in vibrant purple bruising.

“Why would she get a stretcher?” Luther asks after he’s swallowed a few times. “I can just carry him.” He goes to do just that, but is stopped by Diego’s hand on his bicep.

“Don’t. You could make it w-worse,” he says. His tone isn’t accusatory or even particularly challenging, but Luther finds himself bristling defensively anyway.

Luckily Grace chooses that moment to reappear, pushing the stretcher in front of her and Pogo limping close behind. Pogo stills at the sight of Klaus, and Luther feels awkward witnessing the raw pain that passes their old teacher’s face. He looks like he’s seeing a ghost. Just as quickly as the emotion appears it is gone and Pogo is all calm nerve once again. “Master Luther, grab his legs—help Miss Allison maneuver him, gently now.”

Luther is on edge now, from the situation and from Diego’s needling, and hearing Pogo so much as _speak_ is enough to make his blood boil after everything he’s done and hidden from them all—but he takes a deep breath, and he kneels down to take hold of his brother’s legs. He lifts up at the same time that Allison shifts to support Klaus’s upper body so they have him horizontal and on the stretcher as quickly as possible. Klaus hardly makes a noise aside from a breathless whimper, which instills in Luther all over again just how odd the situation is.

As children, Klaus’s powers had been all but useless in most missions. He was trained in physical combat just as well as the rest of them and was able to hold his own for the most part, but they all knew he needed a little extra minding. It became part of the routine of a mission—secure the goal, neutralize threats, watch out for Klaus. Luther thinks he may have scorned Klaus’s apparent weakness once, but looking at him now, all he can think is that he’s glad he never had to see him this way back then.

Getting him up the stairs is going to be more difficult than when they were all children. Luther has always wondered why the medical wing is on the second floor. He supposes he should be considering how strange it is to have a medical wing in the first place, in case one’s adopted children return from a dangerous mission on the verge of death. In the end they all have to help to heft their brother up the stairs, and despite their best efforts his breath stutters with every step they take. Diego holds his good hand the entire way up.

Once they reach the top of the stairs it’s easy enough to wheel Klaus off in the direction of the infirmary. The siblings fall into step several paces behind, all except for Diego, who stays by Klaus’s side. At some point Klaus whispers something that Diego leans in to hear. It must have been hilarious, because Diego shakes his head and visibly holds himself back from giving their brother an exasperated shove.

The moment they reach the medical wing Pogo and Grace burst into motion, bustling the siblings off into a corner of the room where they are mostly out of the way. They watch with a mixture of awkwardness and anxiety. Luther can’t for the life of him remember what they used to do when one of them was gravely injured. 

Luther watches as blue beams from Grace’s eyes scan up and down Klaus’s body, cataloguing the damage before they take any steps in treatment. She blinks several times and straightens up while her systems process the information. “No immediately life-threatening injuries detected. Major concerns include four separate rib fractures, mild pulmonary contusions, several open lacerations, sternal fracture, posterior dislocation of right elbow, multiple superficial contusions, a few minor fractures, and numerous skin abrasions.”

Five gives a low whistle. “Ouch.” 

“Indeed,” Pogo agrees. “We’ll need to cut away his shirt, I don’t want to risk trying to get it off him.” Klaus makes a soft, disgruntled noise as Grace begins to cut away black t-shirt with a pair of scissors, and Luther is sure he’d be whining excessively if he could get a single decent breath in. Someone must have wrestled him from his jacket at some point. Luther watches Pogo go to prepare an IV drip in another corner of the room, but his eyes snap back to Klaus when his siblings all gasp in shock. 

The fabric Grace has pulled away from Klaus’s body reveals vast swathes of purple-splashed skin, concentrated on the right side of his body and especially dark where his ribs are starkly outlined, like they’ve been stenciled in atop a macabre painting. Bloody scrapes cling to the fabric of his shirt. Klaus doesn’t make a noise as Grace pries the fabric from the dried blood, but his face is twisted in pain and a fine sheen of sweat rises on his trembling body. His mouth hangs open—he can’t _breathe_ —and his good hand clenches in the sheet beneath him.

“What did you _do_?” Diego whispers, and Luther doesn’t need to turn to know he’s not even looking at Vanya. He’s probably just staring at their wild liability of a little brother, the one he’s always been so eager to protect. Vanya breathes a ragged little gasp and Luther feels sick with the vindication of it all.

Didn’t he say she was dangerous? Didn’t he say Klaus shouldn’t train with her? Didn’t he say they should keep her locked up in the same cold dark place their father did—

Luther claps a hand over his mouth to fight the lurching rise of bile in his throat. His hands are shaking and he can’t calm them. Luckily none of the others are paying him any attention—out of the corner of his eye he can see Allison stepping protectively in front of Vanya while Diego turns to face her slowly. Luther is dimly aware that he should be intervening, or leading, or whatever it is he’s meant to do.

The confrontation doesn’t escalate, though. It fizzles out as quickly as it began with Diego giving a disgusted shake of his head and turning back to their brother. Luther can see Five relax his posture, but he still looks ready to leap at a moment’s notice, like he’s prepared to teleport Vanya far away from here if they turn on her. Luther is glad of that, knowing someone will be able to make the right choice if he himself cannot.

“There are very strong painkillers in here,” Pogo is saying when Luther tunes into Klaus’s situation again. The old chimpanzee is preparing to administer the IV, his face creased with deep thought. “We will have to perform a reduction on your elbow, which is liable to be very painful, and I’m not certain how effective the drugs will be given your history—”

But Klaus’s eyes have gone wide with panic and he shakes his head frantically, trying vainly to move away from the needle with Grace holding him still. “No,” Luther can hear him now, his voice no more than a breathy whisper, “no, no, no, no—”

Diego moves quickly, shoving past Luther on his way to Klaus’s side. He walks to the far side of the bed so he can grab hold of Klaus’s good hand again. “It’s okay, Klaus,” Diego says. There’s an aching tenderness on his face, and Klaus focuses in on him like a lifeline. “It’ll be over soon, yeah?”

“No,” Klaus breathes and then keeps repeating, shaking his head even with his eyes locked onto Diego’s. Luther can see that his chest is moving even quicker now, and he gets the startling thought that this kind of panic could kill Klaus right now. “Please, no drugs, don’t do this to me _please_ no—”

Diego’s face crumbles a bit and Luther can see his knuckles turn white as he squeezes the hand in his grasp. There’s a general air of confusion, one only Diego seems unaffected by. “Hey,” he whispers as he leans close, “it’s okay. It’s alright. I know you’re trying to stay clean, and you’re doing so well, but this isn’t—” he turns his head for a moment to blink away the suspicious shininess in his eyes. “This isn’t a _test_ , Klaus. It’s okay to have help.”

Klaus listens but then he keeps thrashing his head, continuing his pleas, and Luther thinks he’s probably too delirious with the pain and the whole _can barely breathe_ thing to explain why he’s so upset. Pogo stands there, needle in hand, with that haunted look back in his eyes. Luther has to look away from his brother, swallowing hard. He’d had no idea Klaus was still sober. He hadn’t bothered to ask—had anyone, besides maybe Diego? He would have thought Klaus would be loud and whiny and obnoxious about the whole thing, not silent.

“It’s for your own good, honey,” Grace says with a sweet smile, pinning Klaus down by his shoulders, and Diego nods along though he looks pained to do it.

Cold horror flows through Luther’s veins. He remembers a time when he was alone and in pain and couldn’t speak and these very same people did something to him that he never asked for. His skin, all gray and tough and hairy, itches under the layers he wears to conceal it. “Stop!” he says, and all eyes are on him. Pogo, who hasn’t moved an inch since Klaus started struggling, looks at Luther with immeasurable guilt. “Back off. He said no.”

Klaus is staring at him with huge tear-filled eyes and nodding resolutely. Diego looks like he wants to argue but deflates suddenly, presumably because he too can see the profound relief on Klaus’s face. Grace is still holding him still, and she looks to Pogo for a final decision. Pogo hesitates only a moment longer before setting the IV bag aside on the counter. “Very well,” he says. “We will get started immediately. I ask that you all leave the room—except you, Master Luther. We will need your assistance.”

They file out quickly. The Hargreeves never really learned how to do this—how to back off, how to relinquish control. Diego lingers after the other have left. He’s still holding Klaus’s hand. “Do you want me to stay?” he asks. Klaus gives a watery smile and shakes his head, so Diego gives his hand one final squeeze before leaving.

Once the room is empty except for the four of them, Pogo sighs heavily. “This will not be fun, I’m afraid,” he says, and Klaus grins sardonically. “We’ll have Master Luther hold you still while I pull your wrist down so Grace can lever your elbow back into place. Is that alright?”

Luther swallows hard, feeling queasy, but Klaus’s jaw is set in determination. Perhaps the clinical explanation of what is about to happen has steadied him somehow. Luther can’t help but wish the same had been done for him, even if he wasn’t exactly conscious enough at the time to hear it. He also, surprisingly, finds himself glad that Klaus is being treated with the respect and dignity Luther himself was denied. That’s progress, he knows it is.

While Pogo and Grace discuss the logistics of their plan, Luther walks behind Klaus to try and find the best way to brace him. It seems that no inch of his body is uninjured, and Luther is terrified of causing more pain. Klaus tilts his head back to watch him, but his eyes flicker up to the ceiling once Luther has his hands steady on the least-purple spots he can find on Klaus’s shoulders. A fine current of tension sings through the lithe body in his grasp, and Luther desperately wishes he had Allison’s knack for somewhat forceful nurturing or Diego’s understanding of their brother.

As it stands, Luther settles for squeezing Klaus’s overheated skin comfortingly. He feels like he should say something, so he clears his throat awkwardly. Klaus looks up at him, his brows drawn together in curiosity. “It-it’s going to be okay,” Luther says. “Just breathe deep. It’ll be over soon.”

Klaus seems bemused, the corners of his mouth quirking up slightly, but nonetheless he tries to acquiesce and take as deep a breath as he possibly can—which happens to not be very deep at all, and which he is very lucky doesn’t morph into a coughing fit. Luther grimaces with sympathy. “Ah, jeez, sorry. Didn’t think that through.” Klaus seems genuinely amused now though, so maybe he’s doing something right.

Pogo and Grace position themselves on Klaus’s right side, and he tenses all over again. He stares up at the ceiling and gives no more than a slight wince when Pogo’s long hands grasp his wrist. Grace puts her hands on the violet knobbly mess that was his elbow, and Luther has to look away. Klaus is breathing harshly through his nose and sweat gleams across the expanse of his skin. Luther gives his shoulders a final squeeze before Pogo cuts through the silence. “Three, two, one—”

Klaus screams, the sound all garbled and breathless and horrible, and thrashes violently in Luther’s hold. A second later Luther hears a sickening _pop_ followed by Klaus falling deathly silent. Luther doesn’t realize he’s squeezed his eyes shut until he opens them to see Klaus passed out, his head lolling to the side. Grace gently maneuvers his arm down to rest beside him. It’s still purple and grotesquely swollen, but it looks more or less like an arm again. “Is he going to need a cast?” Luther asks roughly, more to break the silence than anything.

“Yes,” Grace says sweetly. “I’ll begin working on that once we’ve tended the rest of his injuries. Thank goodness he’s unconscious now, poor dear.” Grace runs one hand through the matted mess of Klaus’s dark curls, and Luther watches the motion with a lump forming in his throat.

“Thank you for your help, Master Luther,” Pogo says. He doesn’t look at Luther, probably assuming that the bad blood between them hasn’t dissipated over this incident. He would be right about that. “You may go join your siblings. Once Grace and I are finished, you can keep watch one at a time while he sleeps.” A pause, during which Pogo clears his throat. “I’m afraid he may change his mind about the painkillers when he wakes up, as any sensible person would. He should not be alone when that happens.”

Luther spares Klaus one last lingering glance but doesn’t stick around. The sight of his energetic, loud-mouthed brother all still and quiet is more disturbing than he could have predicted. He leaves the room and makes his way down through the corridors. He feels shaky and light-headed, like he’s coming down from an adrenaline rush, and he takes a long time walking so he can collect his thoughts and school his face before facing his siblings.

He walks into the living room and is greeted by his siblings strewn about the space. Allison and Vanya sit side-by-side on a couch while Diego paces in front of the fireplace and Five fixes himself a drink at the bar. They all look up as Luther enters the room. He realizes that they have been waiting for him before they discuss what happened. He is warmed by the gesture, though these days he doesn’t think he deserves it too much. “So,” he clears his throat and crosses his huge arms over his broad chest. “He’s, uh, he’s okay.”

“Sure, people always scream when they’re okay,” Five says with a mocking not-smile.

“What did you expect?” Diego flips a hand in agitation and continues pacing. “They had to set his elbow without anaesthetic.”

“They didn’t _have_ to do any such thing,” Five growls and throws back his drink with concerning efficiency. “But no worries, right? Luther’s looking out for him, making sure he’s in as much pain as possible.”

Luther bristles and is immediately swamped by horror. His reasoning had been selfish, hadn’t it? He had projected his own issues on his brother, acted like it was a matter of consent when it wasn’t, it was a matter of suffering—everyone is looking at him closely, waiting for him to defend himself, but no explanation is forthcoming.

“That’s not fair,” Vanya mumbles. She’s slouched over, sort of crumbling in on herself, the way she’d always looked when they were kids. “Klaus didn’t want any drugs, he said so. Luther was just—making sure he got what he wanted.” Her voice trails off at the end, but that’s alright, since they all went silent once she started speaking and are able to hear her to the end.

Luther looks at the ground, uncertain relief struggling to settle in his stomach. He glances up and meets Vanya’s eyes—she gives him a shaky little smile, and he tries to convey all the gratitude he feels for her words in just this one look between them.

“Yeah, that’s rich,” Diego snaps. “I’m sure you know what’s best for him. How did he get into this situation, again?”

There’s some shouting and general nonsense then, which Luther tries his best to block out by rubbing his temples. Klaus’s scream is rattling around in his head. Allison is scribbling on her notepad as fast as she possibly can, her faint whispy voice not anywhere near strong enough yet to be heard over all the noise, but Luther can’t really tell what side she’s on. Whichever side Vanya’s on—which is his, right? “How about we talk about this?” he booms over the noise. “How about everyone sits down, and we just—find out what happened?”

They all grumble, which is to be expected, but actually gather closer, which is completely unexpected. No one points out the irony of Luther asking for a council when his own recklessness almost caused the apocalypse not a week ago. Perhaps, Luther thinks ruefully, there’s something to be said for calm and reasonable leadership. Diego and Five sit on the couch opposite to Vanya and Allison, and Luther sinks down into an armchair facing all of them. Five has refilled his drink but thankfully he’s sipping it slowly now.

Luther sighs heavily and makes a waving motion in Vanya’s direction. “So—what happened?”

Vanya explains it to them with her hands clasped in her lap. It’s a short story—they sat beneath the cliff, they had a conversation, Vanya lost control. There’s an obvious hole in the explanation, but Luther decides to let someone else point it out. Allison has been scribbling on her notepad, and she raises it up to be read when Vanya is done speaking. _I came back and found Vanya trying to dig Klaus out. She was able to use her powers to move the biggest rocks. Then we carried him back to the car._

“So you dropped a cliff on him,” Diego says flatly.

“I’m guessing you left the cooler there, too,” Five mutters.

Okay, so no one is going to ask. “What did he say to set you off?” 

Vanya tenses, and Diego turns his rage on Luther. “Don’t you dare,” he snarls. “I don’t care what you think of him, don’t imply he _deserved_ this.”

Luther opens his mouth to defend himself, but Vanya beats him to it. “Diego is right,” she says with burgeoning anger wrinkling her brow. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

Luther raises his hands in surrender. He isn’t sure why suggesting that their most irresponsible and senseless brother is capable of behaving irresponsibly and senselessly is controversial, but he isn’t about to risk another world-ending feud over it. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m just trying to get the full story.”

“That _is_ the full story,” Vanya says, suddenly looking very tired. “And I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt him, or anyone, and I—I need to keep a better guard up, I can’t let myself slip like that again.” She sounds deeply contrite, almost self-loathing, which is more concerning than it is comforting. The last thing they need is for her to spiral over this.

The others are all looking to Luther now, waiting for his decision. He breathes deep and takes a moment to think. It will do absolutely no good to enforce anything that could be interpreted as a punishment, or God forbid, the revoking of freedom. Luther has learned his lesson on that front. “I think,” he begins, “that this was just a mistake, but that we need to be more careful. From now on, no one gets left alone when training with Vanya. Two people need to be with her at all times when you’re out practicing.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Five says, leaning forward and fixing Luther with his signature scowl. “I’ll come along every time now. That way I can teleport her away before she hurts anyone.”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that, but it’s a good idea,” Luther says. He looks at Vanya. “Is that all okay with you?”

She looks very surprised to be asked. “Yeah, that’s fine,” she says quietly. “Whatever you guys think is best, really.”

Luther looks at Diego, but even he seems proficiently satisfied with the solution. Allison is nodding and places a supportive hand on Vanya’s arm. Luther feels, for the first time in perhaps forever, that he’s led in a way that is both effective and just. 

They all disperse after that, off to attend to their own business or take their turn watching over Klaus. Luther returns to his room and sits on his bed but doesn’t pick up another book. Instead he just thinks, silent and still, the way he always used to do when his only company was his mind and the moon. He thinks about being abused and about being the abuser. He thinks about desperately striving for affection that he never got, and about choking Klaus and locking Vanya in a torture chamber.

He thinks about how everyone still listens to him after what he’s done. They challenge him, of course, but then they always have. He’s spent so long thinking that they were ungrateful for their gifts and the opportunities their father granted them, thinking he was just simply _different_ from them, that they would never understand. Slowly but surely this misconception, this _maladaptive behavior_ , is unraveling. They _understand_ , more than anyone else ever could, and they _love_ him.

Luther wipes away the tears that streak down his face. He breathes. They’ll all get better, if they can just help one another.

Eventually Five comes to him and says it’s his turn to watch over Klaus. It’s probably been hours, then. Without a word Luther stands, brushes past his oldest brother, and numbly makes his way through the winding hallways of their accursed childhood home. This place has never seemed cold to him before—except for the medical wing, but he’s always figured he has good reason for that.

Luther stands in the doorway for a moment, silently examining the brightly lit and clinical room that still haunts him. It hadn’t been so daunting before, with everyone else around, but now it’s just him and Klaus’s unconscious body. While waiting for Allison to wake up after Vanya’s attack, it hadn’t even occurred to Luther to be uncomfortable. Eventually, Luther exhales and lowers himself down into the chair that has been pulled up close to Klaus’s head on his left side.

Klaus is very pale and gaunt, with dark half-circles under his eyes that are even more pronounced thanks to his smudged eyeliner. An oxygen mask over his nose and mouth fogs up with every shallow but blessedly even breath he releases. Luther has never really given much thought to how thin Klaus is, or how marked. He has several tattoos—in addition to the HELLO and GOOD BYE ones he’d gotten as a teenager, he also has some newer pieces on both arms and a large one on his belly.

He also has quite a few scars among his freshly stitched cuts. Luther has the feeling most of them wouldn’t be visible if they weren’t so starkly white against the deep purple covering his torso. Most are no more than thin scratches, but even those raise quite a few questions. The ones that give Luther pause are the old track marks in the crook of his left elbow. He assumes they’re on his right arm too, but he can’t tell with the cast covering it. Luther can’t quite help the disgust he feels, but he reminds himself forcefully to be more empathetic and charitable. Besides, Klaus is trying to stay clean, and that’s admirable. He deserves respect, not judgement.

Luther sighs and places a hand lightly on top of Klaus’s own. The size difference is a stark reminder of his own experience waking up alone and in pain, and he takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe deeply. Klaus won’t be alone when he wakes up. Luther will be here for him, even though no one was there for him—and maybe no one has ever been there for Klaus, either. Maybe this is one of those things they share.

Luther sits there for a while, listening to the comforting beep of the heartbeat monitor. He thinks about holding a similar vigil a week and a lifetime ago. Eventually, the heartbeat monitor starts picking up speed. Luther’s hand tightens over Klaus’s in preparation.

But the beat doesn’t even out. It keeps getting faster, even when Klaus’s eyes open—and then slam shut again, and his body bows upward, his good arm ripping away from Luther and clawing at his chest like he’s trying to tear himself open. Luther stands, his hands flitting nervously above his brother’s body. “Grace! Pogo!” he screams, praying that at least one of them are still in the vicinity.

Klaus’s eyes open again and tears spill down his face and he’s not looking at Luther, just staring straight ahead with eyes so wide and terrified and _not there_. “Klaus,” Luther puts his hands on his shoulders, tries to calm him down, but that only seems to exacerbate his panic. He writhes and bucks with far more strength than he should feasibly hold in his wiry body, and Luther has no choice but to let go or risk Klaus hurting himself even more.

Klaus tears the oxygen mask away from his face, which isn’t a good idea, but he’s trying to say something. His eyes roll and his breathing is a shocked, agonized spasm of his chest, and then his voice is drifting out in a barely-audible whisper. Luther can’t hear him until he leans close. “Please, please, please, no more, Dad _please_ —”

Luther reels back and doesn’t move or breathe for a moment. He just stares as Klaus gasps and shakes, his face open in agony and more horrible terrible _suggestive_ whispers escaping from between his clenched teeth. Luther blinks and Pogo and Grace are there too, somehow, and they’re talking at him and to him, trying to calm Klaus but also demanding Luther’s attention. Luther who is realizing that they didn’t all go through the same thing, apparently, not even close, _oh god_ , _not even fucking close_.

“Master Luther,” Pogo is saying, “we need to know whether or not to administer the painkillers.”

Well, what else can he say? What’s he supposed to do now? His hands clutch at his close-cropped hair and he laughs. It sounds closer to retching, which he’s about two seconds away from doing. He has no authority over his siblings, no basis to pretend he even knows them, not when he never knew something like _that_ was happening. Their father would be ashamed to see him now. Their _disgusting evil revolting_ father should have died years ago.

Eventually, Luther nods, because what difference does it make? What does _consent_ matter now? Surely it’s better to end this horrible pain, this terror. He turns away as Klaus stills and goes quiet, at peace (hopefully) and not reliving _that_ ( _hopefully_ ). He leaves, numb, nausea singing through him, the steadying beep of the heartbeat monitor ringing in his ears.

He has a lot more to read about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: every week i give people on the internet reason, nay, obligation, to physically accost and torment me in my home 
> 
> my psychiatrist: wh
> 
> anyway im really nervous about posting this one. it's uh. a lot. please let me know what you think <3


	4. Interlude I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the wait + the shortness but this one little scene wouldn't leave me alone 
> 
> thank you all so much for your kind words it is Extremely Difficult not to respond to literally everything you say with Screaming

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I started using again  
Left my heart in Rocky Hill  
Hole burning in my head  
Needed a distraction from my head  
Devil on my shoulder said try this instead  
So I started using again

 

“Using” by Sorority Noise  


* * *

Klaus’s first thought, or precursor to a thought, is that he should be in pain. Not being in pain isn’t good. There’s something he has to do, and he can only do it if he’s in pain. He’s pretty sure that’s how it works. If not, close enough—the point still stands that nothing hurts and he isn’t happy about that.

He recognizes that he’s high, of course. It’s a soft and sweet sort of high, the kind that one might chase after for years. Whatever he took, it’s some good shit. Did he manage to get his hands on some fentanyl? He’s only done it a couple times and he’s not sure why he’d ever decide to do it again. He’s lost some good friends to fentanyl.

His eyes have been open for a long time before he realizes he can see. He can only see and think for a moment before his consciousness escapes him again, like a yo-yo, escaping and diffusing in the atmosphere before precipitating and settling again behind his eyes. This happens a few times before he gets bored of it and decides he’s going to sleep now, actually. When his consciousness—his id? Ego?—returns to him he finds he still hasn’t closed his eyes.

Allison is sitting next to him. She’s reading a book. Klaus tries to twitch his fingers, get her attention, tell her he needs to be in pain, but somehow he falls asleep before he dissolves again.

When Klaus next wakes up, he’s actually awake, and he can tell because he’s pissed off. It’s an unusual feeling for him and it doesn’t seem to be tethered to anything, until his eyes flicker over to where Allison sat and find Diego in her place. He feels his breath quickening and his muscles tensing and there’s no pain tied to the action, which just confirms his sneaking suspicions. “Hey, _fucker,_ ” he tries to say, only to realize there’s an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

Diego looks up—he was sharpening a knife—and his pensive expression morphs into a wide grin, like he has no idea that Klaus is entertaining fantasies of stealing his weapons and using them for nefarious purposes. Diego scoots up close to the cot, and tries to grab the arm that isn’t immobilized. Klaus rips it away before he gets the chance and tugs the mask down so it hangs around his neck. “What the _fuck_ ,” he slurs, because he’s still high, and he can’t get anything else out because that one statement used up the entirety of his lung capacity.

Diego’s face falls, and Klaus isn’t sure if it’s because he’s angry or because he needs a full minute to recover from two seconds of speech. “Klaus,” Diego says, his dark eyes wide and beseeching, “we didn’t have a choice, man. I’m so sorry.”

He looks too sad. He should be angry, should be _furious_ , but instead the lines of his body are bowing inward because he’s _sad_ and his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out but is scared to do so. This weight is too much for him, just like it’s always been, Klaus is always just _too much for everyone_ —

Klaus is startled to feel furious tears sting at the corners of his eyes, and he quickly turns his head away to hide his expression. “Back to square one,” he grits, trying to sound indifferent and failing miserably when his next feeble breath escapes as a sob.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Diego whispers, sounding wrecked. He frames Klaus’s face in his hands and pulls him back, leaning close so Klaus has no choice but to meet his stare even as tears spill down his face. “This is _not_ on you, okay? It doesn’t erase the progress you’ve made.”

Klaus gives a weak smile and laugh, which hurts like a bitch regardless of the cocktail in his system. “Doesn’t it?”

Diego’s brows furrow, making the long white scar on his face dance a bit. He’s lucky he’s not predisposed to keloids, that would suck. He takes his hands away from Klaus’s face and Klaus doesn’t stop him even though he feels the absence of their warmth and reassurance like a stab in the gut. Diego doesn’t say anything, just lets Klaus wrestle back some semblance of control.

Eventually Klaus closes his eyes and lets out a warbling breath. “Ben’s gone,” he says, consciously aware of it only after it’s left his mouth. All the other spirits are blessedly absent, but he doesn’t want them gone at the expense of his brother. He hasn’t wanted that in a long, long time. “He’s never gone, Diego. I don’t know where he is.”

Diego places one hand on Klaus’s. It’s not enough, the warm comfort of slight pressure. He feels like he did when he first left the house, before he was so far gone he hardly remembered his own name. In those early days he was so _desperate_ to be touched, to be loved, to just be held still. He’d hoped the drugs had killed the part of him that needed love. It seemed they had, until Klaus stole a briefcase and met someone he didn’t need to ask to love him back.

“I’m sorry,” Diego says after a while. “Maybe he’ll come back once you’re off the painkillers, yeah?”

“He’s _never_ gone,” Klaus repeats, petulant in his own ears. The fear attached to the concept of _Ben being gone_ is slow-coming, but when it does wash over him it takes everything in Klaus’s power to keep breathing. He swallows and wets his lips and closes his eyes and wishes he wasn’t high. “Oh god, what did I _do_.”

“ _You_ didn’t do anything,” Diego says emphatically, and now Klaus is exponentially more confused.

“I didn’t—” he frowns and shifts and is stopped by a bizarre tension throughout his body. He looks down to see his torso, bare and splotched like his first attempt at street art. “Oh,” he says, even though he doesn’t get it. His arm is in a cast. There are scrapes and cuts everywhere, spidery black stitches pulling his skin taut and patchy bruises making him look haphazardly thrown together. “I didn’t OD?”

There’s silence between them before Diego finally heaves a broken-sounding sigh. “ _No_ , dumbass.”

“Oh,” Klaus says again. “Are you going to make me a monster wife?”

“Klaus,” Diego whispers, “what _the fuck_ are you talking about.”

“I look like Frankenstein’s creature,” Klaus informs him. He should really be more knowledgeable about the classics, they were a huge part of their education. None of the others had ever really shared Klaus’s passion for literature, though. If things had gone differently he imagines he would have liked to own a bookstore. 

Diego squeezes his hand, bringing Klaus drifting back to Earth. “Hey, man. Why would you automatically assume you OD’d?” His voice is achingly gentle, like he genuinely doesn’t understand.

“‘Cause I feel like shit and you’re sittin’ here lookin’ all sad,” Klaus explains. He has to stop to take a breath in the middle. The pain’s a bit worse now, radiating out in spirals from every point of injury on his body. He aches deep inside, like his bones are grinding. “‘N Ben’s gone. Maybe he’s mad.”

“He’s not mad,” Diego says soothingly. He wets his lips and looks back towards the door. Sneaky Diego is always fun. “Look, if—if you don’t remember what happened, why were you upset when you woke up? Do you remember anything?”

Klaus doesn’t remember being upset. He also doesn’t remember waking up. He does, however, remember the most beautiful place he’s ever seen, quiet and peaceful. He remembers feeling brave and warm with sunlight suffusing through his veins, feeling _invincible_ in a place so different from his nightmares. Allison was there too. He didn’t tell her anything, though, because he didn’t want to burden her, not with everything already happening with her voice and her daughter. Instead he talked to Vanya. She was so wonderful about the whole thing.

Diego traces his thumb in idle circles on Klaus’s wrist. “There was an accident,” he says, “while you were training with Vanya. Something happened, and she lost control. Can you tell me anything about that?”

That’s right. Klaus told her too much, too fast, and it freaked her out. Understandable, all things considered. He remembers the creak of old stone fracturing and he remembers shoving Vanya out of the way. What should he have done differently? Not reminding her of her own fucked up childhood trauma would probably have been a good start. He really is just so _stupid_ , he can’t blame her for dropping a cliff on him.

“You gave me drugs,” Klaus realizes. The anatomical diagrams on the walls blur together in a gory mess. “I was angry at myself because I thought I fucked up but I should be angry at _you._ ”

There’s no answer, and Klaus turns his head a bit to face Diego. His brother is frowning down at their hands, looking in equal turns guilty and righteous. “Yeah, I mean—” he grimaces, glances up to meet Klaus’s eyes very briefly, “that’s fair. You have every right to be angry. But you have to understand, you were in bad shape, you still are. We just wanted to help.”

Klaus purses his lips, confused. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Oh,” Diego sits back a bit and looks bemused. “I’m not following.”

“I _should_ be angry, but I’m not, so I demand recompense or whatever,” Klaus says. It makes sense in his head. “I need help with something.”

Diego sighs and drags his unoccupied hand through his short hair. “How are you exhausting to talk to even when you’re drugged? Yeah, man, whatever you need.”

Klaus nods, satisfied, his eyelids becoming heavier by the second. For a long moment they’re both quiet. Klaus breathes in the sterile air that makes his nose burn and listens to the distant sounds of a radio from someone’s room. _Unseasonably cold temperatures show no signs of abating,_ says the tinny voice. He could walk out into the cold and no disembodied voice would be there to yell at him. “I might not need help,” Klaus says, blinking open eyes he wasn’t aware of closing. “I might be cata. Catastroas—uh. Ca-tas-tro-phi-zing.”

Diego snorts a soft laugh. “Yeah, okay, tell me about it when you’re feeling better, alright?”

“Don’t give me any more drugs,” Klaus says. He swallows and it hurts and he breathes and it hurts. “Promise me, please.”

There’s no answer and the warm pressure on his arm disappears. Klaus opens his eyes—which have once again acted on their own accord—and watches Diego retrieve a styrofoam cup from the counter. He returns and slides one hand behind Klaus’s head, gently propping him up so he can sip from the cup. It was probably ice chips at some point, because that’s what they give you in hospitals, but the lukewarm water still feels like heaven on his dry throat. He drinks greedily until the contents are gone and Diego lowers him back on the bed again.

Klaus watches as Diego sets the cup back down and then just stands there, his back to Klaus. When he turns back, there’s a tightness around his mouth that wasn’t there before, and his brown skin seems pale. “You’re going to be in so much pain,” he says, hoarse. He fiddles with his hands and picks at his thumbnail. “Tell me it’s worth it, Klaus.”

Klaus doesn’t think he understands, but then he remembers that Diego knows about Dave. He knows _why_ Klaus is so desperate to stay sober. He doesn’t know all the details, but he knows how badly Klaus wants to see his lost love. Klaus thinks about Vanya’s training spot, a place Diego used to go with a mysterious _someone_. 

He thinks about how concerned Diego is about the physical pain he’s going to be in and wonders how doting he’d be if he knew the whole truth. “It’s worth it,” Klaus says, his voice all slurred and fading.

The room begins to bleed around him, the anatomical diagrams spilling into the watery sunlight gleaming through the windows. Only Diego manages to stay solid, and that’s probably a sign from God or something.

He drifts off to the feeling of a calloused hand running through the wild mess of his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be More Pain next chapter and i would apologize but i am first and foremost a Bastard
> 
> pwease Validate Me


	5. Diego

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so so sorry for the wait, there was a loss in the family and it's been super tough to deal with that and then also juggle the. emotional burden of this fic kefnerijggbherhg
> 
> anyway!!! please enjoy!!!!

* * *

  
And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad  
The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had  
I find it hard to tell you, ‘cause I find it hard to take  
When people run in circles, it's a very very  
Mad world  
Mad world  
Mad world  
Mad world

 

“Mad World” by Tears for Fears  


* * *

It turns out that Klaus wasn’t catastrophizing, and two weeks pass without any sign of Ben. Diego knows this because Klaus tells him everyday. He tells him in jokes, riddles, and hints, but never outright, and never without a too-wide smile. 

There’s only so much Diego can do. He laughs at Klaus’s jokes and rolls his eyes at the ones that aren’t funny. He makes fun of him for needing help with everyday things. He tries his best to foster an atmosphere of normalcy, but he knows it’s not enough. Klaus’s world must be awfully quiet and lonely right now, on top of his injuries and cravings. He’s suffering but not saying anything and Diego doesn’t know what to do.

The truth is, Diego is horrible at this kind of thing. His feelings and words get confused and come out a jumbled mess, or worse, get translated as anger. So he dances around emotions, avoids them if possible, or tries to analyze them objectively. This never works. He and Klaus are two sides of the same emotionally stunted coin.

Amidst all the tension and silence, these two weeks have been busy for everyone. Luther has been surprisingly tolerable, listening and learning instead of throwing his weight around. Allison is struggling with some legal proceedings surrounding visitation rights—it’s a complicated mess, and Diego feels for her, but he doesn’t say so. Klaus is healing. Five is obsessing over The Apocalypse: Take Two, which is getting on everyone’s nerves. Vanya is working hard and reaching out a bit more. Diego is going to therapy.

He hasn’t told anyone yet. No one has questioned where he goes for a few hours Tuesdays and Fridays, but that’s probably because they assume he’s going out to do some vigilante business and aren’t interested in entangling themselves in his second life. It’s hilarious that his illegal activities are the cover-up, and he’s sure Klaus will get a good laugh out of it once he gets around to telling him.

So, he goes to a therapist—Dr. Good is her name, which is cute—and talks about his grief over Patch and his anger over _everything_. Dr. Good asks about his childhood and he tells her about how training with knives is fun until you mess up and cut your hand but have to keep going until you pass out. She tells him he was abused and he says he knows but he cries anyway, which isn’t unexpected but is still terrifying. He doesn’t like being vulnerable. Dr. Good says that’s understandable.

He’s lived his life desperate for affection and validation. He’s been punished for needing those things. He still craves them, as all people do, but that desire is entwined with shame and rage and fear. So he hides his feelings of inadequacy behind a gruff temper and charismatic demeanor, replaces his need for deep relationships with superficial friendships that he shoves away the second they get too close.

He went to therapy to learn to heal and let go, not to be eviscerated, but Dr. Good seems to think these are one and the same. So twice a week he gets his heart ripped out of his chest, pays money for it, and convinces himself it wasn’t _that_ bad just in time to go again. It feels like a pointless pursuit most days, but after their third session Diego decides it’s worth it. It’s not for any particular reason—he just happened to leave that day feeling better than when he came in.

He does keep up with his work at the gym and his _work_ in the streets. Of all the Hargreeves, he’s the busiest on any given day. It makes sense, what with how quickly he ditched that toxic environment in the first place and how hard he’s worked to distance himself from it. Only Allison managed to get further away from it all than he did, and she sort of had an unfair advantage.

The point is, he’s spent most of his adult life pretending he’s okay and being decidedly not okay. Most of his siblings have done the same. Klaus is doing it right now. Diego doesn’t know how to help him.

That’s why when Diego comes home on Friday after his fourth session with Dr. Good, he decides he’s going to ask Klaus to come with him to his next appointment. He’s halfway up the stairs when he changes his mind, no, he’s not going to ask, and standing in front of Klaus’s door when he changes it back. This is—embarrassing. Embarrassing enough that he stands there for a full minute examining the parallel grain of the wooden door.

There’s no sound from the other side. Maybe he’s downstairs working with Allison on sign language or sitting outside with Vanya beneath the old oak. Maybe he’s sleeping as he often is lately (Mom says it’s healing, Diego says it’s depression) or maybe he’s at the library—no, scratch that, he’s not allowed out of the house for a long while. Maybe there’s ten thousand reasons Diego is putting this off and he should really just man up about the whole thing. He raises a tremulous fist and raps on the door four times.

No answer. Diego frowns and lowers his hand and looks up and down the hallway. He considers entering Klaus’s room anyway, but thinks better of it. Mental health aside, he’s still in pain and needs his rest. With a sigh Diego turns away from the door and makes his way back to his own room.

Klaus’s physical recovery has been rough. He doesn’t hold any resentment towards them about administering painkillers, which is a huge relief. Those first few days, though—there were times Diego’s resolve very nearly broke and he knows Klaus felt the same. The pain he was in would have left him screaming if his lungs would cooperate enough to allow a decent breath. Klaus didn’t tell him that exactly, but Diego has always been more observant than people give him credit for.

In the days after Klaus woke up Diego thought often of their conversation and wondered how much of it was typical meaningless Klaus ramblings and how much of it was—not. He didn’t bring it up because Klaus had enough on his plate as it was and because Diego is _really_ bad at this sort of thing. Instead he waited until Klaus was bored and in enough pain to bring it up himself.

It only took a week. Which is understandable, since that week was spent laying in the infirmary reading and sleeping and staying still. Everyone tried to keep him company as much as possible, but there wasn’t much they could do for their restless brother as they watched him slip into an uncharacteristically morose mood on the worst days.

It had been one of those days that Klaus finally confided in Diego. Diego had been sitting in the chair that remained loyally stationed at Klaus’s bedside and Klaus had been staring up at the ceiling. Diego is quite used to feeling awkward so he was content to sit there in silence. Klaus was not.

He told Diego about his and Ben’s plan to conjure Dave, the man who Klaus doesn’t talk about but whose name he had called out quite a few times in his sleep. He said that Ben had forbidden him to attempt it until he asked for a living person’s help—Diego didn’t understand the problem, didn’t Klaus used to conjure people all the time? Unless he meant, like, _physically conjuring_ which, ew, ghost sex. But then Klaus told him the real problem, that for some reason he just can’t _find_ Dave, the same way he can’t find Ben now.

So Klaus asked Diego if he would help him _find_ Ben. Diego had been extremely suspicious, because hadn’t Klaus _just_ said that Ben had forbidden him from meddling with this aspect of his powers? Oh yeah, Klaus had said, it might be super dangerous. Hell no, Diego had said, what the fuck is wrong with you. 

Some more needling, and Diego had pleaded with him to just wait. See if Ben comes back on his own, don’t do anything dangerous, _please_ , until finally Klaus dropped it. And that was the end of that conversation. They haven’t talked about it since. Diego has been waiting for him to ask again before he says yes. He has an image to maintain, after all.

Diego is halfway down the hallway when he hears a muffled thud behind him. He spins around, but there’s nothing except for a cold draft drifting low on the floor. He stands there for another moment and sure enough there’s another sound—a shuffling, like something crawling on the ground. Carefully he makes his way back down the hallway, stopping just in front of Klaus’s door and waiting. It only takes another second for a shuddery scream to sound.

Diego throws the door open and stops, uncomprehending, frozen.

Klaus is on his back on the floor, like he’s fallen there, propped up on his good elbow and staring ahead of him. His legs are drawn up but his mobility is shot, Diego knows this, and that’s why he doesn’t immediately scream at him to _get the fuck away from whatever that is you dumbass._ Instead he just stands there and gapes at the reaching, soundlessly screaming transparent blue _something_ standing over his brother. The air that billows out of the room is positively frigid, stinging Diego’s eyes so badly that for a moment he can’t see a thing.

When the stabbing clears from his eyes he still isn’t sure what he’s looking at because it’s fluctuating, shifting, growing. He makes out arms and faces and suddenly it’s not a conglomeration but multiple distinct beings, _people_ , their mouths open but no sound coming forth. Then there is sound and it’s indescribable, terrible, shrieking and shouting and screeching, and the people aren’t transparent anymore. They’re solid flesh but that’s not quite apparent until one of them grabs hold of Klaus’s shirt and hauls him upward and another wraps its hands around his neck.

Diego moves, the memory of the last time he was too late to save a loved one playing on repeat in his mind. He tries to grab the one that has Klaus by the neck but is stopped by several of the others—they seize his wrists and claw at his arms and he spares a thought to how _cold_ their skin is. And their faces—the one directly in front of him, a stringy-haired woman, her jaw is gone and her tongue is just sort of flapping there in the gory mess on her neck, and for a moment all Diego can do is stare.

Klaus chokes and kicks out, trying to dislodge the thing that has hold of his shirt and is now straddling him. Diego knows in that moment that he’s never seen his brother so terrified, and the realization kindles a rage in him that burns alongside his fear. He surges forward, breaking the firm holds the things have claimed on him, and lashes out with an energetic fury that manages to feel familiar and well-practiced even in the midst of this chaos.

Only some of his blows land—because these _things,_ they’re unstable, shimmering just long enough for his fist to go crashing through their suddenly incorporeal forms. It’s frustrating and exhausting and the cold is sapping his strength and he’s just beginning to think he _won’t make it to Klaus in time_ when the things just—disappear. One second he’s elbowing a man whose guts are spilling out in a skirt around his legs and the next they’re all gone and the room is blessedly empty and Diego stands there, wondering if any of it happened at all. He turns to Klaus and wishes it hadn’t happened.

Klaus is crying, his shoulders hitching with every panicked little breath that billows out in front of him. Diego swallows hard and kneels in front of him. He reaches a hand out, planning to lay it on his brother’s knee, but Klaus flinches so hard that Diego stops with his hand poised between them. Confusion and concern war in Diego’s mind and for a moment he’s angry—he hates being confused and hates not being able to help. Something must show on his face because Klaus scoots away from him until his back slams into the wall and he holds his arms out in front of him like the world’s saddest shield.

Diego doesn’t know what to do. He shivers in the lingering cold of the room and tries unsuccessfully to reel in his mounting frustration. “Klaus, what the fuck was that?”

“I can’t—I—I c-can’t—” Klaus wheezes and then stops and fists his hand in his unruly curls, a shudder running through him. It takes Diego a painfully long time to realize that Klaus is barely breathing. He’s having a panic attack, or whatever the fuck Luther calls it when Vanya shuts down. Combined with the cold and his injuries, his chest is hardly expanding at all, and his lips are beginning to turn blue.

Diego grimaces and moves forward, steeling himself against Klaus’s inevitable flinch when he reaches for him again. “Klaus—buddy, I’m so sorry, but I have to move you. We can’t stay here,” he whispers. If the cold doesn’t kill him then those things might come back to finish the job. He hooks one arm under Klaus’s knees and wraps the other around his back. Klaus gasps and struggles for a moment before going still, which is more concerning than it is helpful.

Diego takes a deep breath and lifts Klaus in one steady movement. He’s almost unbelievably light and the ridges of his spine are sharp under his shirt, digging into the flesh of Diego’s arm. He moves out of the room quickly, nudging the door shut with his foot on the way out. Somehow he doubts a closed door will stop whatever those things were, but it’s better than nothing. He kicks open the door to his own room, shuts it behind him, and carefully sits Klaus down on the bed—then just stands in front of him, not at all sure what to do next.

Klaus is shivering violently, so Diego takes the blanket from the bed and drapes it over his shoulders. His hand unconsciously seeks out the edge of the blanket and draws it closer around himself, like he’s trying to disappear, all the while trembling and fighting for breath. Diego looks away and hisses out a breath from between clenched teeth.

He wants to shout, wants to grab Klaus by the shoulders and shake him until he tells him _what the fuck just happened_. He wants to ask how he can help with whatever this is, or maybe just run with what little instinct he has about dealing with feelings. Perhaps most of all he wants to accuse Klaus of making their existences way more complicated than they already are. After two weeks of therapy he’s reasonably certain that most of these are not good responses.

Eventually Diego sits beside Klaus on the bed, not quite touching, and waits. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Klaus slowly lean back against the wall and tilt his head up against it. The movement brings attention to the newly blooming bruises around his neck, and Diego swallows back his fearful concern with a vengeance. Seeing his loved ones in danger or in pain is never going to get easier, he knows this—he just wishes Klaus didn’t always manage to be so damn endearing and fragile and _accident-prone_ that he set Diego’s every protective instinct alight.

A full minute passes before Diego runs out of patience—a new record. He turns to face Klaus fully and is met with his brother’s half-lidded eyes already on him. He looks awful, his skin deathly pale and his eyeliner smudged. His eyes are far away, and Diego gets the impression that if he moved too quickly right now Klaus would shut down forever. “Klaus,” Diego whispers into the silence, “can you talk to me?”

“Would rather not,” Klaus rasps.

“Yeah, I get that,” Diego says conversationally when he’d much rather scream in frustration. He waits and watches Klaus raise a tremulous hand to his neck that then trails down to press against his chest. Either he’s feeling the outline of his dog tags under the blanket or he’s hurting enough he’s not even trying to play it off. Maybe both. Probably both. “Can you at least tell me if we’re in danger?”

“No,” is the clipped response.

Diego closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose. “Do you mean ‘no, we’re not in danger,’ or ‘no, I won’t tell you’?”

“First one, sorry,” Klaus’s good hand drifts out to pat Diego’s knee in a clumsy apology. That movement seems to sap the rest of his energy and his arm falls uselessly into his lap.

Seeing him so tired and defeated but still so quick to placate is enough to set Diego’s teeth grinding. He’s always been like this. Klaus, the honorary ‘little’ brother, wild and unpredictable and easy-going and never judgemental, who used to tell him everything but now has to be forced into divulging information. The distance between them feels insurmountable. 

Diego shifts restlessly and listens to the slowly evening sound of Klaus’s breathing. He thinks about how Klaus flinched away from him and feels all his anger and frustration melt away to be replaced with despair and—insecurity. “Hey, do you think—” he grimaces around the false start and rubs a hand against his mouth before trying again. “Klaus. You know I’d never hurt you, right?”

There’s no response so Diego lifts his head to look at his brother. Klaus’s expression is unreadable, carefully blank. “You sound like Ben right now,” he says. 

Diego can’t help raising an incredulous eyebrow. “Ben has to assure you he won’t hurt you?”

Klaus snorts. “No, he doesn’t _have_ to, you ass.”

“No, that’s not what I—” Diego groans and counts to ten. “I just meant that he’s a _ghost_ , alright?”

Klaus shifts and takes a long moment to breathe through the pain of the movement. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse and impatient. “Yeah, well, obviously ghosts aren’t as benign as you’ve been led to believe.”

It takes an embarrassingly long second for the pieces to connect in Diego’s brain. He stares at Klaus, then at the door, then at Klaus again. “Wait—those things were—”

“Ding ding ding, he’s got it,” Klaus whoops.

“Dude, what the _fuck_.”

“Tell me about it.”

“ _Klaus,_ ” Diego snaps, and Klaus flinches again, and Diego realizes he never actually answered whether or not he knew Diego wouldn’t hurt him. “I need you to tell me what happened.”

Klaus takes a shallow, shuddering breath, and releases it with a shiver. “I tried to find Ben.”

So—Diego had figured that out already, because it’s the only logical explanation. And he’s angry, of course, because he _told_ Klaus to wait, he _said_ it would be dangerous and Ben had said the same thing. Mostly though he’s worried, and wants to say something along the lines of _whatever happened, I’ll help you through it,_ but what comes out is “how did you mess up _that_ badly?”

Klaus laughs, because of course he does, then winces. Diego thinks at first he’s jostled his ribs but then notices how he’s gone stiff and how his eyes skitter across the room before landing back on Diego. Diego frowns and looks at the door, thinking maybe the conjured ghosts have made their way through, but sees nothing. “Seriously, though, how come all the other ghosts appeared but not Ben?” Diego asks eventually.

Klaus shrugs. “They were the ones I was seeing at the moment, I guess.”

Diego takes a moment to try to parse some meaning from that sentence but comes up empty. “Sorry, what?"

Klaus has gone pale and sickly-looking, and he draws his knees up to his chest. He pulls the blanket a little tighter around himself while his eyes dance around the room. For a moment he looks exactly like he did as a teenager, wild-eyed and strung out. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to drop a cliff on me.”

So whatever Klaus is about to tell him is what spooked Vanya so badly that she almost killed him. It’s the reason there’s a pile of rubble in front of the secluded cave where he and Eudora used to go when they were young and she was reckless. “I’ll try my best not to.”

“Good man,” Klaus’s voice is disingenuous in its cheerfulness, so obviously belying some terrible truth. “Okay, so—you know how my powers work, right?”

Well, he’d thought he did. “Obviously not. I thought you just like, summoned invisible dead people sometimes, ones you want to see, and that you really hate to do it ‘cause they scared you so bad as a kid,” he watches Klaus closely as he says this, trying to decipher any change in his expression, but it’s like talking to a wall. “It also doesn’t work unless you’re sober.”

Klaus nods. “Right, yeah, mostly. Except it doesn’t matter, like, at all if I _want_ to see them. They’re always here and they never go away.”

He says it in such a rush that Diego has to take a moment to decipher it. Even then, it doesn’t make much sense. “What, so, they’re here right now?” he scoffs a bit, thinking Klaus will appreciate the attempt to lighten the mood, “You’re fucking with me.”

Klaus doesn’t appreciate it at all, though, and that’s obvious when his immediate reaction isn’t a self-deprecating laugh. Instead his face starts to go red and his eyes flicker more wildly than before and Diego could swear he can see the hard thrumming of his pulse in his neck. Awash with concern all over again, Diego tries to say something, but it dies in his throat when Klaus’s hand reaches out to grasp at Diego’s sleeve. He toys with it idly like it’s not the only thing grounding him. Diego watches him and waits.

“I’m being serious,” Klaus whispers, desperate. “I swear I’m being serious, please believe me.”

Diego can practically feel his heart breaking and he flounders for a response. What the _fuck_ is going on? Klaus is— _scared_ , scared of Diego, maybe scared of everyone else who managed to fuck him up until he felt he had to _beg_ to be listened to and dear god Diego doesn’t know what to do. He’s taken too long to answer now and Klaus’s head bows more and if he could move Diego just knows he would be running. “Of course I believe you,” Diego says in a voice that sounds nothing like his own. “Jesus Christ, why wouldn’t I believe you?”

Klaus visibly deflates but doesn’t _relax_ per se, it’s more like a marionette’s strings being cut and leaving it to flop helplessly on the ground. His breath shudders and his hand clenches around Diego’s sleeve. “I just—” he starts, stops, throws his gaze around the room because he’s probably seeing the same ghosts that attacked him _right now_ , holy shit. “I mean I’d get it, if you didn’t. I haven’t exactly done a lot to prove I’m trustworthy.”

“Don’t do that,” Diego murmurs, and Klaus goes still. “Don’t try to justify the way the world’s been cruel to you.”

Klaus doesn’t say anything at all while the words ring damningly in the air. He curls into Diego’s side tentatively and then in earnest when Diego’s arm comes up to wrap around his shoulders. “They’re so loud today,” Klaus says after a long moment, muffled and tired. “I’m losing my mind without Ben. I don’t know what to do.”

Diego still doesn’t get it, not really, and Klaus isn’t making it easy to understand what exactly he’s going through. As articulate as he can be when the moment suits him, he’s perfectly useless the other ninety-five percent of the time. “You should come to therapy with me,” Diego says, stupidly, all the while fighting the urge to pull his shivering mess of a brother closer.

Klaus hums like he’s actually thinking about it and like he’s not surprised that Diego just admitted to seeing a shrink. “Does it help?” he asks.

“Sometimes,” Diego hedges.

“They’d never believe me.”

Diego wants to argue. The whole world knows who they are, what their powers entail—at least somewhat. Dr. Good believed Diego, why wouldn’t she believe Klaus? And Diego would be there, he’d vouch for him. But what value do Diego’s assurances and logic have in the face of Klaus’s entire life experience? What can he say to assuage Klaus’s fears? “I’m sorry,” he says. What he means is that he’s sorry Klaus feels this way about himself and that he has to live with monsters only he can see.

He doesn’t know what Klaus gleans from his apology, only that his brother is beginning to feel warmer in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> diego: i am awful at feelings. i hate them and i hate talking to people and i have never been able to emotionally support anyone ever in my life.
> 
> klaus: i am sad :(
> 
> diego: Did You Know That I Love You? You Are So Good And Kind And Important And I Will Always Be Here For You.
> 
> please leave a comment!!

**Author's Note:**

> empathy is stored in the klaus
> 
> please comment because i love attention


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